


that one where dean tells sam he thinks they're too old for this

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort Sex, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Families of Choice, Female Sam Winchester, Fluff, Genderbending, Hunter Retirement, Injured Dean, Injured Sam, Late Night Conversations, Old Age, Older Characters, Poltergeists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What if we retire?" Dean says. "Let you become a real Woman of Letters, give the kids the chance to take over."</p><p>(aka, they really are too old for this shit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where dean tells sam he thinks they're too old for this

It should've been an easy in-and-out: one baby poltergeist, one empty house way out in the middle of nowhere. Instead, now, no more than an hour after the poltergeist's been banished, they're curled up together on a shitty motel bed, nursing a few banged-up bones and a hell of a lot more bruises than Dean's strictly comfortable with. No matter how much he loves being on the road, hunting things and saving people, maybe it's time to admit that they're getting a little too old for this life. One poltergeist should not have ended with Dean possibly re-cracking a couple ribs, with Sam limping out of the house carrying fingerprint-shaped bruises around her neck and wrists. 

If Dean's honest with himself, it's been coming for a while. Neither of them have been at their best these last few years. 

Sam's nearly asleep and she makes a murmured, inquisitive noise when Dean brushes his fingertips around her neck. He's not pressing hard, just enough to feel her skin, to feel the beat of her pulse and the shift of her skin and bones as she breathes. Jesus. He came so close to -- 

"Stop thinking," Sam says, blinks up at him, eyes already half-glazed with sleep and fogged over by painkillers. "We're fine. Okay? We just need some sleep tonight and we'll be back at the bunker tomorrow. Memory foam," she adds, before her mouth cracks open in a wide yawn. "But you're gonna have to be careful. Are you _sure_ you don't wanna stop at a hospital?"

"If we don't need to stop to get you checked out," Dean says, "then we don't need to stop to get me checked out. I know," he goes on, seeing Sam's mouth open, her eyes narrow, "that you didn't break anything. But that thing had a tight grip on you, Sam. Too tight." 

Dean puts his hand on her chest, feels her heartbeat beneath his palm. Christ, the sight of her on the floor, flailing to try and get the poltergeist off, coughing and wheezing for breath; it doesn't matter how many times Dean's seen that exact thing or something like it before, each time hurts fresh, builds on a gnawing pit of worry in his stomach and a pool of self-loathing in his chest because he wasn't good enough, wasn't fast enough or smart enough, to keep her safe. 

"Hey," Sam says. She takes Dean's hand, slides it under her shirt, presses it between her tits. "Still here. Still breathing. I'm fine, Dean."

"I know," he says. Sure, feeling her skin beneath his hand, feeling the steady rhythm of her heart, it helps -- but it also goes to show just how shaky he still is because there's no thought of sex in his mind. 

Sam gets it, just like always -- she's always been able to read Dean when she wants to, down to marrow and soul. She pulls her shirt off, shimmies out of the pair of Dean's sweats she's wearing, and Dean's eyes are cataloguing the bruises marring her skin as she gets him naked as well. 

"I'm not," he says, weakly, as she wraps a hand around his dick, starts to jerk. He couldn't be less in the mood for sex if he was trying and he hates to disappoint her, he does, but there's no way, no fucking way, he's ever gonna get hard enough to fuck her.

"Don't need to be," Sam says; it takes Dean a second or two to realise he must've spoken out loud. "Just need enough," and she rolls over, presses her back against Dean's chest, puts one leg over his, holds his hand over her chest while her other hand guides him inside. 

He's not in the mood and she's not either, that's clear to feel from the lack of slick between her legs and the friction as he enters her. It does make him feel better, though, to be inside of her, around her, holding her tight to him. 

Dean drifts like that for a while, muscles of her cunt fluttering around his dick, the rise and fall of her chest steady where he can feel it, and he's not sure how much later it is before he says, "We're getting too old for this, sweetheart." 

"Have been for a while," Sam says, taking a moment to answer as if she's trying to weigh Dean's words against his tone of voice, the speed at which he spoke. "What are -- I mean, is this going somewhere?"

"I dunno," he says, and rubs his nose on the back of her neck, inhales deep to let the smell of her fill his lungs. "I just -- don't think we can ignore it anymore." 

Sam doesn't say anything, not for a while. Dean's content enough for now to let it go, especially if Sam's silence means she's sleeping, and he closes his eyes, holds her as tight to him as he can, lets his thumb rub back and forth over her skin. 

He falls asleep. 

\\\

He slips out of her at some point in the night, must, because when he wakes up, Sam's on her back, Dean's head on her stomach, his feet hanging off the bed. His toes are freezing and when he hauls himself up to the pillows, gets his feet back under the covers, he slides them under Sam's calves. 

She wakes up instantly, screeches and has a knife in her hand before she blinks; Dean would be worried but he's laughing too hard for that -- and oh fuck, ow, his motherfucking ribs. 

"Shut the fuck up," Sam grumps, slides the knife back under the pillow and flops back down to the mattress, one hand over her racing heart. "Jesus, I could've killed you." She turns her head enough to look at Dean, to glare at him, and adds, "Still might."

"Aw, sweetheart," Dean says, grinning to hide the pain. "You won't. You love having me around too much." 

Sam raises an eyebrow; Dean waits, is rewarded for his patience when she mutters, "Love _you_ too much. Asshole." 

Rather than devolving into the back-and-forth of an insult competition, Dean slides closer to Sam, presses the lengths of their bodies together, soaks in her heat. This time, when he puts his feet under her legs, Sam lets him -- makes a dissatisfied noise, but lets him, doesn't move, doesn't flinch away. 

"What if we retire?" Dean says, the pair of them looking up at the ceiling, the only sound they can hear the rumble of next door's heater and the slight squeal of wind coming through badly-insulated windowpanes. "Let you become a real Woman of Letters, maybe we can pull some Bobby kind of thing, I dunno. Give the kids the chance to take over." 

The kids -- Dean never expected to become a parent but that's the way he feels about some of them: Claire and Krissy and Tracy, Michael and Lucas, even Jacob, he's so fucking proud of them, what they're doing, but so absolutely god-damned terrified of seeing them killed for it. They call when they need help, though, and they stop by when they need a break or a few solid meals or a safe place to heal up; it's great to see them but good when they all leave again and it's back to normal, back to him and Sam. 

The Bobby thing -- they've been covering for Garth more and more lately, not to mention there are a few -- like their kids -- who just always call them first. It wouldn't be a stretch to put in more phone lines, especially if that would give Dean something to do while Sam's stuck in the books all day. 

...Not that he's thought about it. 

"You'll go stir-crazy," Sam says. There's no condemnation in her tone, nothing to tell Dean whether she likes the idea or not, and she's got a point. Dean loves the bunker but staying in one place for too long has always left him restless, itching to move. 

"We can take easy shit if it comes along," he says, "and there're two dozen safe-houses around the country we'll have to keep in shape. I'll be fine." 

Sam lets out a breath, rolls onto her side, looks at Dean. He'd do the same but he knows that would be killer on his ribs so he just tilts his head, meets her gaze. She studies him, finally says, "You're -- Dean, you're serious about this." 

"Yeah," he says. "I'm serious. We have a place, y'know? We might as well give it a real shot at being a home rather than just a convenient place to heal up or research." 

"Huh." Sam settles back down, this time tangling her legs in with Dean's, taking one of his hands and lacing their fingers together. "Okay. Let's give it a try." 

Dean wishes he could hug her, hold her, sink into her again, but he's old and tired and can barely breathe around the throbbing ache in his chest. Instead, he tugs her closer, breathes in the smell of her, and says, "Okay."


End file.
